


Old Dog, New Tricks

by dkpunk



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Established Relationship, Illidan Being Bad At Emotions Because Of Course He Is, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:47:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26027470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dkpunk/pseuds/dkpunk
Summary: After years of denying both his humanity and his emotions, is it really any wonder Illidan isn't so great at expressing himself anymore? Well, at least he's not practicing alone.
Relationships: Khadgar/Illidan Stormrage
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31





	Old Dog, New Tricks

**Author's Note:**

> *tosses this here and darts out the door*  
> Based loosely off of this [lovely fanart piece](https://sdei.tumblr.com/post/622817735500578816/i-love-this-kind-of-intimacy) by the equally as lovely sdei

There are times, tucked away neatly between the bustle of a campsite shared by the greatest Azeroth has to offer and the faint scribbling on paper that has sounded from his right for the past hour or so, that Illidan wishes he had turned out differently. 

Not in the sense of he regrets who he is. No, he’s far past endlessly reflecting and overthinking on things that, at the time, had seemed as if they were the best course of action. But, rather, something more simple. Personal, maybe even.

He wishes he could have ended things on a better note with a lot of people he’s known, wishes he could have known better words to say on the occasions he’s been faced with somebody in need of consoling. Sometimes, in the dead of night when sleep evades him and the arrival of dawn seems nearly impossible, he even mourns his ability to properly express himself.

Rage and anticipation were easy for him, an old glove for an even older hand. But care, concern and all of the other intricacies he had cast off long ago when he thought they would never be needed again? Those are harder. Hoop after hoop of confusing tones and words that needed to be an equal measure of supportive and firm, helpful to the right crowd.

“You look as if you’ve caught yourself in a loop of endless thought. What is it that plagues you?” Calls a voice, familiar and only slightly raspy due to their previous companionable silence. 

Khadgar.

There comes a shift at his right, the sound such an opposite of the pen on paper that he’s grown accustomed to over the last few hours that it nearly startles Illidan.

Nearly.

“The past does, I suppose.” He replies and regrets it almost immediately when the words sound almost unsure.

But if Khadgar notices (or minds) it isn’t clearly expressed in any form. Instead, there’s another rustle against the clothes that make up Khadgar’s summoned bed before a gloved hand is extended to brush lightly over his cheek.

“The past can be a prison. But it can also be the catalyst that brings about change, many times of the positive sort.” There’s a trail to his soft words that greets Illidan nearly at the same time Khadgar’s thumb trails over and down his nose, mapping. Next, the curvature of his upper lip.

“Have you not already served ample time, Illidan?” If possible, it’s spoken even softer. Perhaps if the mage hadn’t caught his attention so completely, it would’ve registered that deft fingers were working their way into his blindfold to lightly tug.

As the fabric falls away and reveals fel-flame eyes, it is only then that the Lord of The Illidari seems to take actual note of the absence. 

“What are you-” Cut short by a shushing that should honestly annoy him more than it endears him to the mage lurking just above on the bed, Illidan accepts his fate as he has many times before.

“You have, and will continue to, live many more years than I could even begin to fathom. However, I figure I also have some wisdom that’s worth at least sharing, hm?” A light tap to the tip of his nose and Illidan is having to fight down the ludicrous smile that threatens at his lips with a nod. Both an agreement and a cue to continue is hopefully how it’s taken.

“It is not the journey that defines us but what we choose to do at our destination. There will be people who doubt you or harbor grudges, I don’t need to tell you that, I’m sure.” That same gloved hand would move to cup his cheek as he spoke. 

It’s an action so overwhelmingly affectionate that it would’ve been a crime to not meet into it with a lean of his head. Or, at least, that’s what he tells himself.

“But there will also be others who you can help. Perhaps, even those who may change their opinion on you once they see how hard you work. You are not imprisoned, not anymore.” Says the single most awe-inspiring mage Illidan’s ever had the pleasure of meeting in a voice that, were he any lesser of a man, would’ve likely been enough to make him curl up right there and never leave his presence. 

But they are two leaders of an assault on a demonic wasteland and time doesn’t stop for anybody, no matter how much Illidan wishes it would. There’s the telltale signs of pots and chatter from outside their tent signalling that the day has settled into evening, food must be prepared and Illidan must return to being the leader of his people.

Judging by the sigh from above, Khadgar has much of the same mind.

Turning his head in toward the hand as he lifts a hand of his own, the human’s wrist is caught carefully between clawed fingers to bring it from it’s caress. A kiss, quick and chaste through the mage’s glove, is placed on the junction where thumb meets palm and wrist. If it’s a sign of gratitude or something entirely other, Illidan doesn’t allow himself to conclude. 

Instead, he places one more just to feel the way Khadgar’s fingers brush against his cheek fondly once more before allowing him free.

“Let us hope you are right.” It’s a poor attempt at coming across indifferent but that’s alright. Of all the things to fret over, Khadgar seeing glimpses of his more mortal-like side wasn’t on the list.

“I often am.” Is replied as the Archmage stands, adjusting his robes and appraising all that he will need for the evening’s incoming reports. 

Saying goodbye was also often difficult while in good company. That was something he had learned over the time his and Khadgar’s relationship had formed. 

Standing fluidly and ducking to place one last kiss to the center of the mage’s forehead, the demon hunter would faintly brush the knuckles of his index and middle finger over his cheek before stepping back.

“We shall see then. Until next time?” He lifts a dark eyebrow and hopes, almost begs, that Khadgar catches the double-meaning to his question.

“I’ll be here the same time tomorrow. It is my tent, after all.” Amusement coats his words and if Illidan weren’t already forcing himself out the door, he would probably try to kiss him again. 

Alas, he would wait until tomorrow just as he had every day for the past month or so.

Waving his goodbye with a rare smile that falls the moment he steps out from the tent, there’s a faint chime in the back of his head, a mental supplying of the fact that maybe, just maybe, caring for others wasn’t as hard as he thought.

After all, it came almost as second nature when it concerned the mage.


End file.
